urst, as you know, on the day
when it was tested, on the Pont de Charenton, and killed four and twenty
curious spectators. You see that I am not a bad match in marriage. I
know a great many sorts of very engaging tricks, which I will teach your
goat; for example, to mimic the Bishop of Paris, that cursed Pharisee
whose mill wheels splash passers-by the whole length of the Pont aux
Meuniers. And then my mystery will bring me in a great deal of coined
money, if they will only pay me. And finally, I am at your orders, I and
my wits, and my science and my letters, ready to live with you, damsel,
as it shall please you, chastely or joyously; husband and wife, if you
see fit; brother and sister, if you think that better."

Gringoire ceased, awaiting the effect of his harangue on the young girl.
Her eyes were fixed on the ground.

"'Phoebus,'" she said in a low voice. Then, turning towards the poet,
"'Phoebus',--what does that mean?"

Gringoire, without exactly understanding what the connection could be
between his address and this question, was not sorry to display his
erudition. Assuming an air of importance, he replied,--

"It is a Latin word which means 'sun.'"

"Sun!" she repeated.

"It is the name of a handsome archer, who was a god," added Gringoire.

"A god!" repeated the gypsy, and there was something pensive and
passionate in her tone.

At that moment, one of her bracelets became unfastened and fell.
Gringoire stooped quickly to pick it up; when he straightened up, the
young girl and the goat had disappeared. He heard the sound of a bolt.
It was a little door, communicating, no doubt, with a neighboring cell,
which was being fastened on the outside.

"Has she left me a bed, at least?" said our philosopher.

He made the tour of his cell. There was no piece of furniture adapted to
sleeping purposes, except a tolerably long wooden coffer; and its cover
was carved, to boot; which afforded Gringoire, when he stretched himself
out upon it, a sensation somewhat similar to that which Micromegas would
feel if he were to lie down on the Alps.

"Come!" said he, adjusting himself as well as possible, "I must resign
myself. But here's a strange nuptial night. 'Tis a pity. There was
something innocent and antediluvian about that broken crock, which quite
pleased me."

BOOK THIRD.

CHAPTER I. NOTRE-DAME.

The church of Notre-Dame de Paris is still no doubt, a majestic and
sublime edifice. But